


in the quiet chaos, you are there

by silverdaggers



Series: qp jarchie oneshots [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Archie is sad once again bc apparently this show hates him, Archie needs a hug, Aromantic Asexual Jughead Jones, Asexual Jughead Jones, BACK AT IT AGAIN, Blood, Bughead didn't happen in this lol, Desperate Phone Conversations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, POV Jughead Jones, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Protective Jughead Jones, Queerplatonic Relationships, SO, Spoilers for Episode: s01e13 The Sweet Hereafter, Worried Jughead, give Archie Andrews a hug 2k17, i'm so done but i'm staying for my ginger son and his father, ish, save the Andrews 2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverdaggers/pseuds/silverdaggers
Summary: "I'm on my way, Arch," he pants, feet already numb as he sprints down the street without any particular direction in mind. "I need you to tell me where you are."The static and not-breathing stutters somewhere between a choke and a sob, a throat clearing."Pop's," he answers finally.A 1x13 post-finale thing that will 100% never happen but when has that stopped me before.





	in the quiet chaos, you are there

  **A/N: sooo I hated a lot things from that finale, but Archie Andrews was not one of those things. My son must be protected and, oh look, he has a best friend that can do just that, fantastic.**

**Spoilers for 1x13, The Sweet Hereafter.  
Post 1x13, The Sweet Hereafter.**

**Rated T for language and idk blood.**

**Lyrics from Nova Amor - Carry You**

* * *

_Torn down, full of aching_  
_somehow our youth would take the blame_  
_Worn out, the way we let it stay_

 _Taught how to celebrate it_  
_all out, I'd replicate your pain_  
_Climb down, if only for a taste_

* * *

He's jogging down the Andrews' staircase when he gets the call.

After trapeezing through the woods to save Cheryl's life, a new kind of school shenanigans, and relationship management with both Betty and his dad, he'd crashed long and hard the night before, burrowed in his bedding like a cocooned animal prepared for hibernation.

The house was quiet when he woke.

First warning.

Mr. Andrews might've gotten to work already, what with all the complications between him and Veronica's mom—and speaking of...

Archie's bed was still made.

Second.

He'd allowed himself a semblance of a smile at that, then dragged himself to his feet, sloppily pulling his hat back over his hair.

Then his phone vibrates.

Shrill and piercing in the quiet, it echoes hollow in his chest, an emptiness like the house is creeping in his bones, and he frowns as he wrestles the device from his pocket.

Third.

A flash of his own reflection staring back at him in the dark screen, then Archie's frozen expression smiling through the window of a profile picture. Despite the whispers of warning prickling his skin, trailing down his spine, he has a wry smile painted across his lips as he answers the call.

"Hey Arch, I was just-" But he stops.

As the world shimmers like a dream, edges crinkling as tin foil, ripping and tearing, floor momentarily disappearing from beneath him before he regains his footing a few steps further down, he stops.

The line is insects buzzing in his ears. Loud, unsteady, but he can still hear the faint breeze in the background, people milling around, tones sending uneasy worry all the way down to his soles, a car door slamming, a second person nearby but not close enough, all mingling together with sounds of someone struggling for air.

His fingers twitch around the phone.

"Arch?"

A hitch, a catch in the not-breathing, then an audible shudder.

"Archie?" he repeats, pressing his phone impossibly closer to his skull until his face throbs. Blood runs cold, hot, cold, burning, and his heart taps faster in his throat.

More static. More not-breathing.

_Something happened._

And he's sprinting for the door, not bothering for his shoes, his coat, anything. The winter morning doesn't register, too trivial compared to the voice in his ear that refuses to speak to him, to do anything other than _not-breathe._

"I'm on my way, Arch," he pants, feet already numb as he sprints down the street without any particular direction in mind. "I need you to tell me where you are."

The static and not-breathing stutters somewhere between a choke and a sob, a throat clearing.

" _Pop's,_ " he answers finally, _finally,_ and a shaky exhale makes its way from Jughead's lungs. He immediately changes trajectory, ducking into somebody's driveway and tiptoeing through their yard. " _I-I'm at Pop's, I'm—Jug, my dad, he—they took-_ " and Jughead's frame chills in the ice and snow he can't feel, embers of adrenaline burning brighter, sparking in his veins.

"Hey, hey, hey," he begins as the clogged voice returns to muffled gasps for air, a mixture of dry sobs and heaving breaths. "I'm almost there. Keep talking, Arch, keep talking to me." _Tell me what's happening, what is happening-_

" _I-I can't-_ " breaks off into a sputtering cough, and a quick keening sound that makes Jughead physically ache.

It's bad.

" _I can't breathe, Jug,_ " and it's somewhere between a foggy statement and desperate plead.

"Yes, you can," he finds himself barking into the microphone, the street blurring to smears of whites and gray, his own desperation clawing at his throat in a claustrophobic swell.

" _I can't._ "

"Hey, I can see Pop's, Arch, I'm there, I'm right here," he babbles, gaze glued to the diner with familiar fluorescent lights up ahead, and the crowd gathered nearby, across the road and in the parking lot.

Red and blue, flashing like beacons. Black and white vehicles, one, two, three, sentinels scattered outside. Worry stings like needles in his skin, or maybe that's the snow, or his feet torn apart by asphalt and ice, emphasized by the silence on the other end. Even the tinny gasps have faded behind the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

"Arch, talk to me," he mutters, anxiety thick and sour. "Are you hurt?"

" _There's..._ " A clank and some rustling, then an exhale washing over his ear. " _There's blood-_ "

He nearly trips over the curb.

_Fuck._

"I'm here, I'm at Pop's, is there someone with you, Arch?" he asks, whipping around, shoving through bodies as he searches for red hair and pale skin and _blood._ He doesn't wait for a response and Archie doesn't give him one. "I can't find you. Are you inside?"

Seconds, crawling by until Jughead grinds his teeth together to stop a frustrated scream from bubbling in his chest.

Nothing.

"Archie," he cracks, ignoring the yellow and black tape already stretched over the door— _crime scene, do not enter, do not enter—_ and flings himself inside anyway.

A wave of warm air, but he's already freezing solid in place, caught in the spell of quiet chaos.

Glass, shattered across the bar, various liquids dripping from the edges, uniformed men and women fluttering around, only pausing to stare at an intruder, _him,_ standing by the door in nothing but plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt.

And his hat.

He stumbles a step forward, eyes wide and blank, scanning the scattered barstools and people until he finds _red,_ deeper and darker than the booths, thicker than the other puddles leaking along tile.

"Archie!" he starts, but a hand on his shoulder stops him, dark eyes imploring and professional, and they speak but he's not listening.

Too many people crammed into one building, too many unfamiliar and aged faces peering down at him, not enough orange hair, brown eyes, familiarity.

_The breeze._

It could have been something else, but he'd heard the wind earlier on the phone, a car door.

Archie's not here.

Not sparing the officers a single glance, he spins on his heel and catapults himself back outside, back into the snow, the strange civilians huddled like vultures. He once again shoves past them.

"Arch, you're not at Pop's so where the hell are you?"

He can hear the breathing again, still pitiful wheezes creaking like wood.

"I can't find you if you don't tell me," he adds, nearly pleading, trapped, grounded, crushed until his own lungs can scarce find oxygen to feed from.

" _I-I... The ambulance, I need-_ "

"Arch, tell me what you can see." He's in the streets, again, craning his neck down every alley, every corner, pace frantic.

" _I can see a..._ "

But Jughead darts into an alley on a whim and he's _there,_ right around the corner, body wedged between a wall and his own knees, face hidden and phone against his cheek.

"Archie," he breathes, hanging up and stuffing his phone back into his pocket while dropping to his knees. "Hey, hey." Numb fingers pull at Archie's grasp, removing the mobile from his hold and replacing it with his own hand. Blood, _too much,_ flecks drying and smeared over Archie's skin, his coat, his jeans.

_Fuck, fuck fuck-_

"I'm here, I found you," he says mindlessly, vying to catch Archie's gaze, but it's distant and glazed, pink and wet, his lungs still rattling in his chest. "You need to breathe, Archie."

Unless he's hurt, and _that's_ why he can't breathe. Did those idiot cops and paparazzi let him leave looking like _this?_

"Arch, answer me; are you hurt?"

He softly elbows jean-clad legs out of the way, hands and eyes searching Archie's torso for injuries even as the redhead reaches for his wrists to stop him.

"My dad..." he chokes out in an inhale as he snags Jughead's arm. "Not me... My dad."

And he stops, actually _stops_ for the first time since the Andrews' stairwell, to let himself absorb everything, to take in the details, light chocolate eyes and damp hair, ruby red in a smudge by his chin, and the tears, not fresh but still marking his weary features and cementing the entire situation in a way nothing else had.

"My dad," Archie whispers again, repeating it to himself, his breathing growing shallow and quiet as Jughead watches something flit through his eyes, processing his own words, turning them over and over and over until distant eyes get glassy.

On impulse, _instinct,_ Jughead reaches out and pulls Archie against him, encasing his upper body with his own. Archie's head nestles somewhere between his shoulder and neck, arms encircling and clutching tight until Jughead's muscles protest, but he doesn't care. He simply squeezes back and buries his face in blue and yellow fabric until there's nothing but him and his best friend.

"Just breathe," he tells him, because they can't do anything else but simply that, together, bodies aching from the cold, from each other.

And that's what Archie does, quiet, void of tears, just pressed against Jughead and breathing full breaths.

"Jug," he croaks after what feels like hours, pulling away but only just. His fingers dance on Jughead's bare arms, a frown pinching his eyebrows. "Where's your coat?"

Suddenly self-conscious, he shifts his feet beneath him, making sure they're wedged under his own weight as he kneels so Archie doesn't see. Jughead doesn't even know what shape they're in, but they throb in time with his heart and he still can't feel them.

"You scared the shit outta me. Didn't exactly have time to grab a coat." _Or think to._

Archie only frowns more, still-haunted gaze flicking over Jughead in search of something.

"Come on," he urges, eyes sad as he stands and offers his hand. Archie clasps it and eases himself off the ground, pitching to the side as the blood rushes from his face. A steadying hand, a grateful look, and Jughead gives what he hopes is a reassuring nod.

And so he hobbles to the hospital with Archie, hobbles until the redhead notices his bare feet and demands he take his shoes. Jughead only accepts on the condition Archie keeps his socks, at least.

They eventually make it, collapsing on plush but decidedly uncomfortable chairs and soaking up the heat of the waiting room.

They wait.

Hours roll by, a nurse patches up his frozen feet while Archie watches, face pained but guarded.

They're told Fred is in emergency surgery, and that's that. Archie calls his mom, expressionless, emotionless even as his voice warbles, looking stretched and pulled and gaunt in the wake of witnessing his dad get shot in the stomach. They talk for several minutes, his mom's tearful replies audible though indistinguishable on the other end, until Arche ends the conversation kindly but curt, lips quivering, tears there but not falling.

Phone in his lap, he stares at it as if it holds a piece of his soul he just gave away. Or maybe that look is supposed to be directed at something else, some _one_ else, but the object is an easy substitute in the moment.

Jughead grimaces in sympathy.

"Arch..." he starts, voice barely a whisper before he clears it. "He's going to be okay. And... I'm not just saying that for your benefit. I'm saying it because he _will._ "

Dark eyes lock with his, empty, so _tired,_ but thawing. He reaches out and folds their hands together, clinging for dear life until Archie clings back.

"Yeah," he manages, voice thin, smile watery.

"You will too," Jughead adds, pulling Archie closer in their seats until his arm can wrap around his shoulders, as broad as they are.

He stays like that, holding the pieces of his friend together until he falls limp in his grasp, eyes closed and breaths tickling his skin, their closeness a comfort to Jughead as he now waits alone. He counts each tick on the clock until he too is lulled away by the fog of sleep.

* * *

 _Hallowed, but hesitated_  
_shallow, but full in all your veins_ _  
_ _shadowed by every other weight_

 _In all your blame, in all your pain_  
_I will carry you always_

* * *

**A/N: I just adore these two and I want my sons to be happy. But I am a sucker for the Person A gets a call from Person B when they're hurt/distressed and can't do anything but panic until they find them trope. C:**


End file.
